Abstract
In spite of Lewis’ sustained, earnest, and determined efforts at writing poetry through the middle 1920s, his reputation will always be based on his prose, both fiction and non-fiction. That this is the case begs the questions: Does Lewis’ poetry matter? Why bother sifting through his verse if the real gold is to found elsewhere? Should not Lewis’ poetry simply be written off as so much adolescent self-indulgence? Did not his commitment to older poetic forms and traditions hopelessly date his poetry? While much could be said about the literary merits of Lewis’ poetry, here the discussion is limited to how his poetry reflects upon his spiritual maturation.
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